


Endless Nights - an Obey Me! drabble collection

by Desdimonda



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Angst, Cheeky Belphie, Comfort, Confession, Drabble, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gen, Happy Birthday Asmo, Intimacy, Longing, M/M, Pact Seal, Pre-Relationship, Realisation, Soft Mammon, Solitude, Suggestive, Supportive Asmo, Teasing, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: Here's my collection of drabbles, headcanons and short fics centred around MCs relationship with the boys, and others.-----Mammon comes home to find you in the kitchen in pain.--A drabble with some soft Mammon looking after you while you're in pain.
Relationships: Asmodeus (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Barbatos (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Belphegor (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) & Reader, Lucifer (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Character(s), Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Simeon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 57
Kudos: 694





	1. Confess

Had it been hours? Mammon didn’t care. It could have been days, a lifetime. Lightly, his fingers draw over your hair, his rings sitting on the arm of the sofa so he didn’t catch the flyaway strands. You’d fallen asleep at last, after a night of restless agony, wandering the halls of Lamentation; trying to distract yourself until morning when you wouldn’t be alone, until Mammon walked into the kitchen from a post shoot party and found you on the floor, trying not to cry from pain.

Gently, he was on his knees before you, pushing back a lock of hair, stuck to your forehead with sweat. You looked up, his sapphire eyes the only thing you could see.

You don’t quite remember what he said, a voice cracking with worry, but before you realised, he’d picked you up off the floor, and into his arms. 

He shook. Trembling, as he walked you both to the lounge and sat on the end of the large sofa, letting you sink into his lap, his touch _feather light._ You feel his jacket cover you, familiar Mammon smells of leather, of his favourite cologne, imprinted on the jacket; vanilla, ivywood. Your body, caressed in his scent, only then recognises that you are in-fact, right against his chest.

A damp cheek, wet with tears, sticks to his shirt as you turn into him, the beat of his heart touching your lips.

“Y-you comfortable?” he says, the words husked with worry and tinged with the warmth of coffee.

A nod is all you can manage, the ‘yes’ falling to a sigh. 

Your breath touches the v of skin, bared from his shirt. 

Mammon shivers, watching, just watching you, as your eyelids, fall.

He doesn’t remember how long he watched, feeling helpless when you winced in pain, when you curled your legs tighter, your body imprinting against his, until you’re shadowed beneath the veil of sleep. A mercy, a bliss.

And he holds you, cradling you, one hand twisted lightly through hair, the other around your legs, fingertips gracing you as if you’re porcelain, as if you’re ethereal, as if you’re the only thing he’s ever _really_ loved.

Sometimes, he thinks you are.

Footsteps approach. Quiet, curious. Asmodeus, fresh faced, wearing his rose embroidered dressing gown, sits beside Mammon, an arm draped over the back of the sofa, his movements slow, gentle, elegant. It must be morning.

“How long have you been like this?” asks Asmodeus, Mammon’s eyes firmly fixed on you, as fingers draw down, down your hair, afraid if he loses his rhythm, if his touch, leaves, you’ll awake, and he’ll bring the pain back.

“Dunno. I found them in the kitchen when I came back from the after party,” he pauses, as if the next word hurts to say, “crying.”

“You really do love them, don’t you?” says Asmodeus, tilting his head to the side as he observes you, a lilt to his smile, but not unkind.

For a moment, Mammon’s hand stills, but he doesn’t look away. Firmly, his eyes are fixed on you. Making sure you’re still breathing; up, down, making sure you’re at _peace. “…_ I’m just helping.” A protest. Weak.

“Want my advice?” Asmodeus gently touches Mammon’s shoulder, but he doesn’t move. He’ll move for no-one but you. 

“Do I ever?” he says back, the words quiet, but biting.

“Tell them,” says Asmodeus. Simply. “Before there’s a world between you.” He stands, his gown gliding off the sofa as he walks past, a soft hand touching his brother’s cheek, then yours. “Don’t forget to get some rest too, Mammon.”

For a while, he stares at the wall, at the numerous elaborate paintings of infamous demons past, present. He sometimes wondered if he’d grace the walls of Lamentation with a portrait too, where someone would walk in and instantly recognise and admire him, for being _The Great Mammon,_ his deeds, his power and fame, obscuring everyone else on that wall.

He looks down at you, your breathing even and gentle, still kissing the small patch of bare skin; at your face, pressed against his chest, half obscured, lips parted, just a little; at the way your hair is awry, more so than before, from his touch.

And none of that matters, anymore. 

Nothing matters, but you.

He swallows, as if trying to get rid of the words, tucked beneath his tongue, waiting, waiting-

“I love you,” he says, the words cracking against his throat, so quiet he could barely hear.

You stir against his chest, a hand snaking around his back, fingers finding a patch of bare skin, and you cling. Your voice is hoarse, and barely a whisper. But to Mammon, it’s the loudest thing he’s ever heard. “I love you too.”


	2. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belphie spends some time in the planetarium.

There is no sun in Devildom. No moon. No stars.

Not real, anyway. It’s all faux, a trick of the Devil King’s magic, drawn across the skies at his whim. Some cycles there’s two moons, some there’s none. The stars differ in colours, depending on the season or event, or they can rain like fire, pouring the heart of Devildom across the skies. 

It’s a canvas, and the reigning demon its brush. 

But to Belphegor, there was nothing more beautiful than the skies of the human realm at night.

Lying on his back in the planetarium, he waves his hand to the side, blackening the glass, expelling the falsities of the Devildom skies, to nothing. It’s not lost on him the irony as he pulls up a visage of the constellations of the human skies across the black glass, and reaches up, a finger echoing the pisces constellation, prominent between the swathe of stars. 

Lilith could always name more constellations than him when they lay beneath the sky, talking for hours during his visits. She loved to just, look up, laughing - but not unkindly - when the humans thought they - the angels - lived up there, sitting amongst the clouds, preening their feathers. 

Belphegor smiles now, remembering that laughter, plucking it from the air as he just stares at the stars. So still, compared to Devildom’s garish paint. There was something so unreachable about them. Unknown and untouched, unlike here, and up there, where everything feels so controlled; _known._

Closing his eyes, Belphegor wonders when he’ll see them again, the human world still cleaving his heart in two.

He misses the stars, the moon. Lilith. 

“Room for one more?” you say, looking up, then down at the demon on the floor, curled into a ball.

Belphegor looks up, and he sees the stars. But not in the sky, nor the planetarium, but in your eyes.


	3. Personal Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Satan gives his pact seal with you a personal touch.

Like the others, Satan wanted his _own_ pact seal. But unlike the others, it was done by his hand, to your skin.

Whereas the others had appeared with the brother’s individual magic - some slow, some fast - it was never like this. Like a scribe; ink to skin. He waited for as long as it took for you to be comfortable on your front on his bed, back bare, from neck, to tail. You were unusually quiet, for some reason it felt wrong to talk. The whisper of books around you loud enough.

But you asked, why your back, why your spine.

He draws a hand, feather light, from base to nape, after you asked, as if composing the answer first. 

“There’s an ancient saying in Devildom,” he began, as his claw started to mark the seal in an ancient dialect of Devildom, the tip saturated emerald with his magic, “that loosely translates in your language, ‘if you turn your back on a demon, be careful for they might grab on’,” He pauses, staring at the first word, marked onto your skin. Painless. “’And never let go’.”

Your toes curl.

His voice is low, delectable, you can almost taste it. “The back and spine became sort of...admired - _desired -_ by demons over the thousands of years. Fashions have been made to emphasise the spine; endless body modifications and jewels.” He stretches up closer next you with the next word, his touch warm and fizzy with magic. “Especially for lesser demons and other species who maybe wanted to...” He thumbs a taut muscle. “Attract a high demon.”

“I had no idea,” you say against the pillow, fingers clutching the sheets tightly. 

“Would you have refused if I had told you?”

You twist the sheets more as he etches the next word, just in the dip of your back. You can feel him breathe and you shiver, your mouth forming a soft O.

“No.”

You are both silent as he continues writing the rest. You try to understand what is being etched onto your skin by the motions, gentle, fluid, cursive. But all you know, all you feel, is the pact between you both, bloom. 

You recognise it from the others. The invisible tug on your soul, stretched, scattered into several palms. But as it sits in his, it seems to...fit.

Weathered, but warm.

He’s at your nape now, fingers pressing lightly around your neck, to steady, steady you, to push aside your hair, awry. You can feel him breathe in, and out; you can feel his heart beat, quicker than you expect.

“What does it say?” you ask, your voice hitched.

And he speaks, in a tongue you have _never_ heard. His lips twisting the dark speech elegantly, decadently. It feels like he’s swallowing all other sound, and you are consumed, unaware you are holding your breath, as if you understand the raw words that drip from his lips, and kiss your ears.

“Wh-what?” you whisper, unable to move your head.

Satan just smiles. 


	4. A Slip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MC has returned to the human realm, but they're missing Belphie who they keep in touch with a lot. More than they realise.

The sun has lost its warmth. You walk beneath it’s yawning rays, the light dappling you skin as you walk beneath trees, the blossom sprinkling across your hand. 

You thought you’d long to be touched by the light again, after being beneath Devildom’s eternal twilight. But it felt cold. 

The city around you was home, every street, shop, the rhythm of life here, so familiar. But you were out of sync.

Life picked up from where you left it, but you no longer fit. You’d been pried out of where you felt you really belonged all too soon. Devildom, the seat of Hell -

-and Belphegor’s arms.

You scroll through his messages. There wasn’t a day you didn’t talk. He’d been quieter at the start, his ache at your absence almost tracing his pact seal, imprinted on your thigh. You sometimes touched it, lining the intricate dagger, its pommel a mirror of his horns, and you wondered if he could feel it; if he could feel the way you longed.

A part of you held back.

The messages were flirty, the pictures dirty. But could he see what was packed between the fun and desire. 

Greed, need - _love._

You snap a selfie by the river, the breeze catching your hair, but your heart catching your smile. It had never been the same since you’d left. You barely recognised it. Could he tell?

He replies with ‘cute’ and a heart. A few seconds later he replies in kind. Lazy, languid, shirtless, with bed head, wrapped comically around his horns. It had gotten so long. Your hand lifted as if to touch it, to feel the length twist through your fingers.

> “ _I don’t mind if you touch me more,” he’d whispered against your cheek as you kissed. A first kiss, pulled together achingly slow as you’d cuddled on the sofa, as you’d both slid further down, as his tail began to tap, tap against your thigh._

> _He’d caught you first. He’d waited for you to say yes, no. But the way he held you, there was only one way to go._

> _You hadn’t kissed like it before, lazy but fierce; sensual but greedy, crowned by his horns. Horns you’d touched on instinct, but pulled back when he’d whined. Was it okay to touch? Did it hurt?_

> _His words eased you; his body urged you, printing meaning._

> _So you touched, fingers slipping over ridges, wide and thick; some bitten by scars, by marks, you were desperate to know. And they were cold. Impossibly cold, black bone that seemed to shimmer midnight where you’d left your touch behind._

> _But you gasped as you grabbed his hair, slipping off the curve of a horn. It was so soft, like threads of Devildom’s sky itself falling against your skin._

> _You pulled._

Your phone vibrates again. 

**Belphie** : where’s my compliments.

A smirk and you reply, your fingers tapping at the screen without thought. Because it’s not until you hit send when you realise what you’ve typed.

**You:** easy to see why I fell in love.

You stand, looking around as if there’s something that can explain your slip. But there’s nothing to blame, but you.

You sit back down, staring at your phone, at the messages, scrolling through, imprinting them to memory as that’s it, right. You’ve just told him you love him out of the blue, through text. 

But he replies almost straight away.

**Belphie** : I love you too. Are you free? I’ll come visit in a bit. Just let me shower.

**You:** I’ve got a shower.

**Belphie:** summon me

**You:** I’m not home.

**Belphie:** go home. love you.

The sun feels a little warmer as you walk home.


	5. You, Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You finally pact with Lucifer, and he brands you with his seal, and himself.

You seal the words with a kiss, the promise unwound against your lips as you taste Lucifer’s pact.

It touches you softer than you thought.

At first.

The trace of his finger, from chin to chest as you kiss. You feel the thrum of magic between your skin. It broils between your bodies from the moment he submits.

For even though his words spelled your hierarchy, his voice handed you a thread - a thread he coaxed you to pull as the red in his eyes, glowed; as you felt a single feather from his wings, fall. The midnight black kiss brushing off your shoulder, and down, down, your back, as if tracing your own singular wing, yet to spread.

His hand stopped, palm to chest, the indents of claws dimpling your skin. And you feel a _prick_ beneath his palm, so sharp it takes your breath. And it burns, burns as red as his eyes, touched by the mark on his forehead, shining his pride, but also _lust._

You look down, but all you see is his hand. 

You look up.

“My room,” he says, the word a command you obey, and you begin to wonder if he has the power to flip the dance of the seals. You wonder, you wonder a lot about Lucifer as you both stagger along to his room, backs hitting the walls more than once as you kiss, the tingle of magic on his lips, palpable. 

You push, push against his body and will, but ultimately you are led to his room, door shut by a yawn of his wings. 

Because he won’t let you go, now that you’re _his._

He pauses by the bed, a palm to your back; you’re ready to fall. But for a moment you wonder - is he?

You look down at your chest and see a singular rune. And with a breath of surprise, you recognise it. His rank; his moniker; his weight. 

Your lips mouth ‘ _pride’_ as you touch it. But he doesn’t move, you’re both suspended, transfixed in limbo as if he waits for something that wasn’t asked. Even his wings don’t move, the statuesque spread of their beauty, ready to crack.

Then you touch his face. Once. Drawing a hand up, up along his smooth skin, imprinting the kisses you’d left behind, until it reaches his hair, lost between your fingers. And you don’t stop until it touches his horn. Cold, black bone, ridged, marked, spilling tales you don’t understand. 

Lucifer moans. A soft, longing noise you’ve never heard, as he turns into your touch, his eyes shut, lips parted in a song somehow you know only you will ever hear.

You lie down, and he follows, his wings spreading as he kneels above you, and you look up, crowned in horns, by the only god you’ll ever answer.

“There’s something I need to finish, first,” he says, two palms spreading across your chest, baring the skin, the beat of your heart.

He leans closer, closer, the crimson of his eyes flashing as they wholly consume the whites of his eyes. 

“What?” you ask, but you already know. You just want to hear his voice.

Two thumbs sit either side of the singular rune in the middle of your chest, and they press, the tips of his claws hot with magic. “Make my mark.”

_You already have._

“This will hurt,” he says. But there’s little apology in his eyes anymore. That moment is gone. 

And you’re glad.

Pricked by his magic, his fingers, his eyes a guide, Lucifer slowly carves his seal into your skin. At first, it just feels like the pluck of the rune from earlier. And you might think it will lessen. But it’s a constant, eddying ache. So much so that you can understand every line, you can feel the curve of the circle as it surrounds; you feel the short, sharp movements as more runes are etched.

You look down and try to decipher, the lick of a moan passing your lips. But it’s caught, caught and swallowed by Lucifer, a fang dragging your bottom lip as he pulls away.

You moan again in hope of an encore. And he serves.

"What do the other runes mean?” you ask, against his lips.

He pulls back, his hands spread further across your chest now, as you feel longer, curved lines begin to carve. “My name in demonic, bond, permanence-” Lucifer pauses, watching the way an echo of his wings appear on your skin, glowing bright red beneath his shadow. There’s another rune that you don’t understand. But he doesn’t give.

Your body writhes beneath his, the pain making you restless. But he holds you still; palms to chest, thighs to thighs. For a while, you’d forgotten that growth in the bond, the strengthening of you, to him, as your seal grew. The pain has temporarily quashed it, but now as you’re steady beneath his body, cradled by the tip of his feathery kiss, you feel.

You feel his heartbeat, in yours; you feel like when you thought, he’d hear, and if he closed his eyes, he could still see. A gateway has been unlocked; a spell, broken, and a part of you wonders if he didn’t split your soul in two, and claim half for his own.

Two. One.

You draw a single finger down his cheek. It paints his lips, and you touch a fang, wondering just how hard it can bite.

“None of my other seals hurt,” you say, as you watch the small crown of his horns crest the circle. 

And stop.

Your breath shudders as his hands slide, up, up along your neck, through your hair, until he stops, a whisper from your want.

“None of the others, are _me.”_

Your breaths are quick and shallow. And you stare, consumed by the crimson maw of his eyes. Wholly on you, wholly yours. 

And you touch your mark, raw, red and sore. You feel the perfect circle around the runes that speak, you feel the spread of his wings, one set black, the other white. At that, your body moves, you let slip a gasp, a delicacy of the soul he left behind, imprinted on you. You start to wonder why - why he’d bare so much for you, and in its position, for everyone to see. But as if answered by your silent plea, Lucifer touches the wings, and they gently turn black.

“Only for you,” he says, punctuated with a kiss, “for me.”

He pulls you into his arms, so tightly, so needy, you think he might consume you, as lips surround your neck, the graze of fangs a promise. 

And soon you’re a twist of limbs, of lust, of lost words- until he accidentally brushes your pact seal, and you wince, the pain still raw. 

At once, Lucifer is on his knees, cradling you, before a feather light kiss touches your seal. And another. Another. Until all you can feel, is him.

And you think you understand the last rune he carved, which you notice has disappeared when his wings turned black. 

_Love._

For you, for him.


	6. Language of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Asmo!
> 
> How the Lord of Lust falls in love.

Mammon was the first to notice.

He’d always been observant, interested, taking in the chorus of his brothers and most significantly, you. His heart was bared, but you didn’t claim. Because you’d already found another. And so he watched, soaking in your happiness from afar. For that’s all that really mattered.

The first thing he sees is the way you laugh, but not for just anyone - for Asmodeus. 

It was different. Relaxed, painted a pitch that matches your smile; a smile that always reaches your eyes.

Eyes that track the way Asmodeus moves, as if trying to find an opening so you can fit. You wonder if he holds you, will you? Or will you just be a number, a conquest. 

The thought pushes down words that you’re desperate to say. But they’re stuck. Stitched to lips that he hasn’t yet kissed. Although, the intention flits back, forth, suspended between you both from a thread, coaxing, to see who will break it first.

A part of you wonders why? Are you not good enough to even be a mark, in an endless scrabble of names. 

But regardless, you enjoy the sensual words, the light touches, the tension, the glances, away, back, a gentle game whose rules you thought you’d read. But what if they’d never been written?

You’re on his arm, walking to The Fall, and you both stride in past the queue. But as the doors open, Asmodeus hangs back and lets you step forward, a hand to back, eyes on you, eyes on him. 

But you were first.

He dances, but he doesn’t chase the spotlight, because it’s firmly fixed on you. As is he.

He talks, but words direct their company towards you, and suddenly, they’re transfixed. For a moment, you wonder if he can charm for you, or _to you._

There is something both subdued - but alight - about him when you’re there. Are you dampening his fire, you worry. You tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, and see him blush, his soft laughter almost lost in the sea of music, but it still finds its way to you. 

You shiver as he takes your hand, fingers slowly twisting together before you, his face half hidden beneath the lock of hair that falls again as he dips his head, but looks up.

At only, you. 

He says nothing, but you’ve never seen him so bare, stripped, unravelling before your eyes, piece, by piece.

Another piece falls when you walk into his room. Beside his bed sits an exquisite frame, and you always remember it holding a beautiful portrait of Asmodeus. A candid, but exquisite picture in the flower garden, in his demon visage, his smile touched by the moon.

But now, there is a picture of you.

Your fingers trail over the silver of the frame as he hangs up his scarf and starts running the bath he’s about to take. 

“How long...” Your words fall away. There are many ways you could finish that sentence. There’s only one you want to say. But does he want to hear?

Asmodeus pauses when he realises what you’ve seen. It’s covered in an airy laugh. “Oh that? Ages.” He touches your arm, hand sliding up, up to your shoulder, until fingers glance your neck. “I clearly need to bring you into my room more often.” The words chime playfully, but-

-then his hand is gone.

You can still feel it linger as you stare at the photo. It’s not even that good. Just one of you laughing in the RAD dining hall, probably complaining about the ridiculous uniforms. Again.

He’s standing at his dresser, taking off his earrings. But he’s not looking at his mirror, he’s looking at you. 

“I hope you enjoyed tonight,” he says, a fragility to his voice you’re unsure of.

“I enjoy every night with you.” It slips out, and he pauses, hands poised with a handful of earrings. “And day.” 

You step closer, watching another piece, fall.

“Really?” The insecurity falls off his lips, and you’re there to catch.

Lightly, you cradle his face, the touch washing away his doubt that you realised had quashed his light. Not you.

Your thumb brushes across his bottom lip as you catch his eyes, just before you kiss.

The earrings fall from his hands to hiss on the floor as he bumps the dresser, as he lets you collide, body to body.

He tastes just like you’d imagined. Sweet, hot, like you can taste light, like you can taste love, twisted around tongues, unsaid, but spoken in a thousand different ways. 

And you realise then, as he pulls back to catch breath and just study you, like you’re the only thing he can ever see, that he’s been speaking so loud, but you’ve only just heard. 

“Really,” you say, reaffirming, reassuring. Stripped away is the Asmodeus that paints everyone’s eyes, their expectations and want. Gone is the visage, so carefully crafted to match the title of Lord of Lust. You gaze at the insecurity, at the love painted by fear, doused by doubt.

You blink. Looking twice.

Love.

You were the last to notice, but you wonder as you kiss him again, again, nails dragging along his scalp as you hold, as you both laugh through the kiss, that so was he.


	7. Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belphie wants to make things right.

Belphie wants to make things right afterwards. 

But he’s afraid you’re afraid. So he starts small, barely noticeable. He’ll be the one to cook your breakfast; he adds an extra pillow to your bed; he makes sure you know he’s listening when you talk, and laughs at your dumb jokes.

You notice one morning he’s sitting opposite you at breakfast. And yours is different from everyone’s. Your favourite. But he looks away, hidden behind too long bangs. But you think you see a smile. And it starts to quash the memory of _that_ smile on _that_ night.

His laugh is different too. Gentle. And it’s a word you’d never thought to associate with Belphie. But you notice it too in the way he moves. Around you, behind you, until one afternoon he’s beside you, walking you home. At your door, he says his goodbyes. 

But you stop him.

A hand by his, you want to know if you’re still afraid. So you touch. 

You remember, but not like you used to. 

You remember the way he listens, attentive, interested. 

You remember the way he served you breakfast, more than once. 

You remember his smile, just for you. 

“Stay,” you say, fingers catching two of his.

You notice his tail is out, and it swishes back, and forth, happily. You can’t remember the last time you saw it- 

You do. Wrapped around your neck. Now it’s gentle too. Now he’s happy. 

Like you. 


	8. Beacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a party in the Halls of Lamentation kitchen, but there's one person missing - Satan - and it's not right without him. Not much is.

The noise you leave trails behind you, the music imprinting like footsteps as the notes fade onto the floor, leaving a path for your return, almost asking you to come back, come back. 

You’d left everyone behind. They’d all been there in the kitchen, taking up every surface, from floor to counter, emptying the fridge and cellar, smashing a glass or three, and seeing which Devildom delicacy would cook best in the new human microwave Mammon bought off Akuzon. 

Everyone, but one.

The impromptu party was so loud, the music, the laughter and voices bouncing off the walls making you feel as if you belonged as much as any of the brothers here. Almost.

For the absence of one, was louder than anything. A void, breaking through the cacophony of noise that pulled you away, away. And before you realised, you’d knocked twice on his door, wincing as the empty glass in your hand tapped against the wood. 

“Yes?” comes his voice, slow and smooth, muffled by the walls and piles of books that shape his bedroom. They always make sound different in there, and you feel wrapped in the countless words printed on the paper, bound beneath skins of all species. Some you’e sure are too familiar for you to want to know.

You take the word as an invitation, and stumble in, clicking shut the door. You breathe deeply, filling your lungs with the smell of books old, new, wrapping around you. 

It’s not true that Satan doesn’t have wings, because they’re right here, all around him, with spines creased from use, pages worn from fingers turning and touching the words that make up the membrane between. 

When you’re there, they seem to _spread,_ the pages rustling at your presence.

“I brought the party here,” you say, holding up a bottle of the human realm’s finest gin.

Satan smiles when he sees. It’s his favourite. Did you remember, or was it just chance? He knows we see more in the clash of coincidence when we want to, need to. But, maybe. Just maybe.

He doesn’t close his book, but places it face down, spread at his side as he starts to shuffle along his bed to make room for you. But you’re already here, a warm aura sinking against him, breaking the shawl of solitary he’d pulled tight.

Your familiarity is just that. Familiar. But there’s something different about it tonight. An edge that makes you look here, there, as if writing the words behind your eyes for him to read, because your tongue can’t speak.

Satan looks. He looks at your restless eyes unable to meet his and he rolls a tongue over a fang. He’d seen the look countless times from lesser demons, from humans, before he feasted. He could _smell_ it. 

Fear.

But the flavour was different. 

And the fear wasn’t for him.

He takes the gin from your hands and pours you both a glass.

“You’ve made quite the dent in this already,” he says with a half smile. The words are quiet, and have their desired effect to _pull._

You lean closer, glass pressed against your lips as you strain to listen. “I’d have preferred if you were there to share it with me.”

Satan licks the gin off his lips as he listens, staring at the opposite wall, smothered in books and books and words. “I prefer my own company,” he says, not meeting your eyes.

You empty your glass. It clinks with the floor as you set it down and shift closer, two fingers pushing back a lock of Satan’s hair. He freezes at the touch. Unexpected.

“What about mine?” You’re so close he can taste your breath.

For a long while, there’s a pause. Nothing. He doesn’t even blink. Then he speaks, his words muffled against the glass. “Do you even have to ask?”

“I do.”

Satan empties the glass and pours another. You watch. He moves with delicate precision, his hands holding the glass like a cradle, finely tipped claws jewels against the crystal.

You reach out, and touch. Your hand is smaller over his, fingers slipping between fingers as you hold, the skin so cold from holding his book for hours and hours. The claws feel like obsidian as you draw your thumb along an edge, so sure it will cut.

Knees press against his thigh, and you push back that lock of hair again as it falls forward.

“Why me?” At first, you’re not sure if he’s speaking to you the way he says it. His eyes are fixed on the glass, watching the clear liquid ripple as your hand moves against his. Then he turns, his lips parting in surprise as he realises how close you are.

For a moment, you think about pulling back. For a moment.

But then you smile, the echo of his sentiment falling past your lips. “Do you even have to ask?”

Hands entwined on his glass, he lifts it with you and empties the gin in a swift motion, before reluctantly setting it aside. A claw reprises its touch, pricking beneath your chin as he looks down, so you look up.

“Humour me,” he drawls, licking a drop of gin off his lip. 

You think for a while, feeling the tip of his claw drag beneath your chin, scratching at the skin as if trying to pull out the words. A hundred, thousand words simmer across your tongue as you try to answer. But he watches you. Waiting. The intensity of his presence making you begin to wonder if you _can_ speak.

His thumb drags along your bottom lip, painting it with the scent of paper. 

“Surrounded by ten, by a hundred people,” you begin, feeling the words before you hear, “if you’re not one of them, I feel something missing. I’m happy when I see you, comfortable when I’m with you, and each page of your story I turn, I can’t put it down.”

You blush, the intensity of your words taking your breath, but you just smile. “Your laugh. Your _laugh_ makes me forget there’s no sun here.” There’s a pause, and you reach up, noticing his horns are out, the candlelight painting them with a gold tip. “I’m not afraid of you. Or what you could be.” You caress the end of his horn, and watch as he sighs into the touch, his eyelashes fluttering. 

“You - you’re a beacon that calls me, and I want to answer, but do you want it?”

He answers in a kiss. His answer swallowed away as you’re pushed back onto the sofa, the slide of his tail holding you steady, steady as you both, fall. He’s cradling your face, claws tangled in your hair as his kiss deepens, the drag of his fangs catching your lip, and you taste the tang of blood, dipped in gin.

He pulls back and licks away the blood, the lowest of growls rumbling against your lips as you feel his tail _quiver_.

“I want it,” he says, pulling your bottom lip with his teeth. “I want _you.”_


	9. A Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find Barbatos exactly where he said he'd be, and he gives you a taste.

Click, click, your shoes chime across the kitchen floor, breaking between the thrum of the music from the ballroom that seemed to follow you as you walked, even though you wanted to leave it behind. There was little light in here, just the touch of the moons, with its sister stars, bloomed bright for the occasion, Diavolo’s magic painting the sky.

You touch the cold granite, speckled silver, and look up, seeing that curl of turquoise kissed by the moonlight. Pearly to your eyes.

“You came,” he says, soft and smooth. You almost hear a breath of relief.

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

Barbatos approaches you, hands clasped neatly behind his back, just sitting above his bone tail, that swishes side, to side, to side, as he walks. As elegant as his steps, as his poise, before he stops a pace before you, and waits.

The smallest of twitches in his horns betray.

“Courted by seven Lords and a Prince,” he says, cool words on warm lips, “why would anyone leave?”

Glancing back at the kitchen door, ajar, you talk to it, ignoring Barbatos’s gaze. “You are right,” you say, and make as if to leave, “I’ve made a _grave_ mistake.”

_Slam._

His hands pin either side of you to the counter, his body a breath away from yours but it doesn’t yet-

- _touch._

Barbatos smiles wryly, and you return the gesture, arching your back, enough, enough, that your chest briefly brushes his. An invitation, a goad, for more. One of you always pushed, while the other pulled. A dance of knives in a den of wolves. 

And now you are ready to bite.

His tail hovers high above his head, the pointed bone tip reminding you of a scorpion, ready to strike. Your lips part.

“Leaving so soon?” he drawls, the words touching your lips, because his wont.

“Is there reason to stay?”

For a while, he watches you, as if trying to decide.

Then you feel; you feel the cold drag of his bone tail along your inside thigh, _achingly_ slow. It indents the skin as it presses, a tremor rippling from tip, to top. 

Your gasp touches the walls, warming up the cold tiles and stone. Thighs are pushed apart as he rides up, and up, and you dig into into the granite at your back for traction before you fall. Because he’s not holding you, nor touching you, his hands still a cage either side of you.

And you cling to the bars, nails dragging against his sleeves as his tail touches your crotch, aching, _aching._

He presses his tail against you, exactly where you want, rolling over your clothes, warm, damp, and for a moment you almost beg. 

Barbatos smiles as if he knows.

He leans close, as if he’s about to kiss, to answer your plea, locked away behind bared lips, but he leans to the side, brushes your ear, and whispers.

“Do you want me to stop?”

It’s a tease, a mocking drawl that licks your ear. And you almost cry out as his tail sneaks beneath your underwear, the bone curling against skin.

“No.” It’s simple, but difficult to form between the moans that paint your voice. Barbatos listens carefully, cheek to cheek, his lips perched on your ear, and you hear the way he breathes. Hitched, staggered, reacting, acting- 

-to _you._

“I didn’t hear you,” he lies, desperate to pluck another plea from you.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp, as his tail moves, exquisite.

But he does.

He pulls his tail free, gently, the tip hovering by his lips which are now beside yours. All you can do is watch as he rolls his tongue along the tip, up, and down.

“A taste, for later.”

For you, and him. 

He pushes off the counter, your bars dropped. And he turns, and leaves, pausing at the kitchen door. “You know where my room is.”

You clutch onto the counter, trying to breathe.


	10. Stimulate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solomon decides to tease you with his magic in class.

You and Solomon are both sitting having a long lecture about Devildom species history, and he’s in the row behind you. You can smell his cologne and the old hide books he always has with him, saturated in magic, and you’re sure some in old blood. 

He used to sit far in the back, but he’s closer now. Closer to you. 

Is it deliberate? You hope so. You stretch your neck, a hand rubbing at the stiff muscle. And you think you feel him watch. His dark eyes like stone, giving nothing away. But then you do feel something. A touch brushes your thigh, but there’s nothing there. 

Your knee jerks against the desk in-front and you wince. The touch slips over your knee, the ache soothe. 

The touch is soft, warm, tingling. It would tickle, if you’d let it. You run your own fingers over your knee feeling what’s there and you catch your breath, the scent of Solomon’s magic licking the tips of your fingers. It’s unmistakable. You try to hold. To grab. To pull. 

You look back, and see those eyes of stone set into your back, but they’re different. They glow with his magic now. Magic you can’t see, but can feel. He watches, waiting for your no, but you’ve forgotten what that word is. 

Your tongue shapes against your teeth. It licks your bottom lip and you’re sure you feel his magic quiver. Even if he gives nothing. The quiver of magic rides along your thigh. Up. Up and between your your legs, pulling a silent gasp that you’re sure he can feel. 

Your legs part. Just a little. Just enough. And you feel that trail of magic caress. You feel it press. It moves like a hand, but softer, able to find places you’re unsure you can. And before you know, your hand moves with it too. Compelled. Watched. 

And as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. 

Time is lost beneath the hold of his magic. The class is packing and you have no idea how or why. Your breaths are yours again, and you can hear your voice as you let slip the gentlest of whines. But it’s caught in his hand as he stands at your back, fingers trailing along your hairline as he leans down, the words imprinting against the shell of your ear. 

“Come find me,” he pauses, drawing a finger down the nape of your neck, where he can see the edge of one of your pact seals. “ _Now._ " 

And he’s gone. 


	11. Lost, and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simeon seeks solitude in the secrecy of the RAD gardens, but finds companionship instead.
> 
> \-----
> 
> Written from the prompt - latibule (n) a hiding place, a place of safety and comfort - from an ask on tumblr.

The Celestial Realm had always been home. There hadn’t been anywhere else for Simeon. He used to wonder wildly about the humans, just beyond reach, hearing tales from lesser angels who frequented at Michael’s orders; from higher angels who enacted their own. But, there’d never been a reason for Simeon. There’d instead been something holding him back. A tether so strong to home that was now broken as he resided in Devildom. One of two angels, the glow of their wings dampened by the lack of light.

The moonlight gave them a whisper of their beauty, but it felt cold, like the light was a breeze, like a wash of water trickling over the down, a droplet lining the patch on his back between the spread of his wings. 

How long had it been since someone had touched there?

The gardens of Devildom were different too. He wondered how the flowers bloomed with no sun above. But the rules for here were written differently, by a hand that bent to no-one else. And in its own way, the realm listened.

It wasn’t the place Simeon had imagined when he used to stare at nothing and wonder longingly for those lost - especially one such brother, Lucifer. When the Celestial realm shattered apart at their fall, spitting them out with its own anger to the proverbial depths below, all Simeon saw embracing them was pain. Rage. Fear.

Loss.

It’s what he’d been told. The antithesis of home; hell. 

But despite the decadence of sin that saturated the ground, the air, the skin of every creature - they still _lived_. Breathing an existence like Simeon had in the Celestial, like the humans he’d heard countless stories of -

-like everyone else.

How could so many be so wrong?

But there were times he still didn’t _fit_ here. When the air seemed to prickle his skin; when the darkness dragged at his feet; when he spread his wings, and felt something _pluck_ a feather. 

The garden had become his recluse, the soft, unusual coloured foliage soft against his hands, the bright flowers scented so sweet he wondered if you could eat; and the way the moonlight trickled over the pond, rustling with creatures he couldn’t name, but had come to enjoy watching, their eyes occasionally catching the light as they passed the surface. Some had four, some seven. There was a small one he was fond of with one.

The garden was kind to him, too, giving him serenity when he asked, giving him the rustle of leaves, the chirp of Devildom’s birds when wanted, and - as he looked up, hearing the pat, pat of feet across the grass, the sigh of the trees following the steps - it gave him _you._

You’d caught him by surprise the first time as he knelt by the pond, his wings stretched wide and free. You were dazzled, thinking you’d stumbled across a creature you hadn’t met yet in the gardens, but the closer you looked, you began to recognise the feel of his Celestial aura, radiating. But then he noticed you, and in a blink his wings were gone, leaving behind a shawl of white that dispersed, away.

You wanted to touch what was left behind, but your hand just hovered.

There was little you both said that night, although you tried, knelt by his side, watching the ripples of the pond, dark beneath a starless night.

“That was the first time I saw your wings,” you’d said.

Simeon was silent for a long time after you spoke, his fingers brushing over the purple green blades of grass. 

“I don’t like to stand out,” he says, gently. “Or remind…those of what they’ve lost.”

* * *

The second time you appeared, he’d missed class. 

“We - I - missed you today.” You sat where you did last time, two moons painting the pond so bright you could have been fooled there was light.

“I heard you and Lucifer last night. I didn’t mean to - I was trying to give back a book I’d borrowed, but I heard him talking about the Celestial realm; I heard -” he paused, spreading his hands before him, the reflection almost perfect on the mirrored pond. “It still hurts him. And it hurts me that I stood on one side, and him another.” 

You stare at his hand. You want to hold it, but you just watch.

“I couldn’t face him today,” he continues, dipping his fingers in the pond. He’s not afraid of what’s in there anymore. They recognise his presence. “And I’m ashamed. For I’m not the one who should be hurting.”

You stare at his hand. You hold it.

* * *

The fifth time, you’re laughing. A basket of cakes, sandwiches, sit between you, crumbs, pieces, thrown into the pond, where a strange array of creatures sit, some eyes poking above the surface, some with their heads, nibbling on your offerings. They watch both of you sitting where you always sit, shrouded beneath the canopy of low hanging trees, the dust of their bloom falling every so often as if they breathe. Some of them probably do.

“ _Please_ let me copy your homework, Simeon,” you beg, as you unwrap a third cupcake, watching, watching as his smile hasn’t yet faded since you arrived. It reaches his eyes, so bright, alight, as if the sun sought recluse there instead.

“One condition,” he says, holding up a finger. 

“Anything.”

He leans closer, his smile persisting. You watch as his wings appear, spreading slowly from his back, the tips of the golden feathers brushing against your bare arms.

“Good,” whispers Simeon, before he kisses you. 

It’s soft, like a feather, fallen from his wing; it’s warm, like the sunlight he carries within. He pulls back just a little, and licks his lips, smeared with icing from the cupcake you’d just eaten. He plucks another kiss, this time with intensity, his tongue tasting the last of the icing away, because all he wants to taste is you.

* * *

He’s lost count. So have you.

The small creatures and fish bobbing and swimming happily at the edge of the pond where you both sit, his head resting in your lap as he gazes up, basked in two giant crescent moons, splitting the sky.

It’s almost time to go home. Tomorrow.

“Do you think everyone knows we come here?” you ask, idly drawing your hands through his soft hair. You curl the end around your finger. 

“Only if we want them to know. I feel like this place holds secrets, and footsteps,” he says, skimming his fingers across the cool water, peppered in petals, pinks, purples, yellows. 

And it did. 

That’s why Simeon came here at first. For solitude, for escape. To hide in plain sight, right next to RAD.

But somehow, you had found him. He sometimes wonders if he had laid out a path for you to follow, and he was just coming here to wait.

He reaches up to touch your cheek, watching your lips part, almost tremble with words you want to say. But he presses two fingers against, locking away your words. This wasn’t goodbye. 

Because how could he say goodbye to his home; to the place he felt most safe, comfortable and free - _you._


	12. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your connection with Belphie was never going to be smooth.

You’d said goodbye to Belphie after a kiss, a night, twisted together after shed clothes, the moonlight breaking through the attic window, painting your skin, the rain crying a symphony to your moans, your whispers that weren’t quite words.

And after, neither of you slept.

It had surprised you, watching Belphie lie at your side wide awake for hours, watching, watching, waiting. Usually he was fast asleep, nuzzled into you, but this time, he just, watched.

There was nothing to say. Because your bodies had written it all.

But somehow, you’d both found a last goodbye as you’d left for the human realm, the last thing in your vision, Belphie. Devildom blurring around him as you turned.

And that was all you’d said of meaning to him for weeks.

For months.

You both recited monotony, talking small, and taking detours around what really happened, and what you both really felt.

So much, that you began to believe it. That he doesn’t really care.

And neither do you.

So you detach, wrapping wires around your heart, ones you’re sure he’s felt before.

So when you step back to Devildom, it sharpens.

You see the red eyes that desire you, and you look back.

But you’re not the only one that sees.

You brush a hand across greed’s thigh, hearing his awkward laugh.

But he’s not the only one that’s felt that touch.

You whisper against the sorcerer’s ear, reminding him of something you shared when you both kept each other company during those lonely nights.

But he’s not the only one who hears.

You look up, and see Belphie across the room, perched on the arm of a chair, his eyes shadows, tail swishing roughly.

Hit, hitting the side.

You stare.

You watch.

You ache.

You miss.

The wires tighten around your heart, crafted from the words you won’t say.

You turn to walk away, and feel something follow. Someone. You turn and there’s no one there. But the halls of Lamentation sometimes speak for themselves.

You turn and he’s there.

You’re slammed against the wall, his knee between yours, his tail pinning an arm in place, the fluff brushing your head. You forget to breathe as he towers over you, the tips of his fangs biting a lip so hard it’s almost white.

And still. There’s no words.

And still, and still-

You kiss.

Roughly. Noisily. Claws messing your hair as he pulls you from the wall and to the winding stairs, where you stumble, and the steps bite your back.

He growls as he drags you to your feet.

He grunts as he pulls you off your feet, sitting you around his waist, claws indenting your thighs as he holds you flush, making sure you can feel how hard he is as he stumbles backward up the stairs.

You feel his tail sneak under your top, curling against your skin, tickling,

He wraps its strength around you until you hit the barred door and you both just.

Stop.

Belphie pulls back, panting. He leans forward, dragging his fangs along your throat, the weep of blood painting his lips red.

“Welcome home” he growls against your skin.

You can feel a smile.


	13. Memories, Lento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer hears you playing the piano.

Lucifer hears you playing the piano one night when he’s half asleep in his study and thinks it’s Lilith from when he used to teach her, and for a moment, he’s back in the celestial realm, his wings spreading wide in memory.

But the weight feels wrong.

It aches in his back where he ripped out the third pair. The absence of them so heavy as the notes trill through the corridor, kissing his ears.

His hand brushes against the scar and he winces, feeling the deep, written ridges. He’s never let anyone else read them before.

Not until the ink has dried.

He hovers by his study door, listening. Claws biting into the ancient wood, almost crumbling beneath his grip as he wrestles with yes, with no.

The longer you play, the more the memory forms.

Her smooth voice telling him to stop correcting her hand positioning.

The way she shoved her elbow into his side when he quietly said “that’s not fortissimo”

Or when she used to sing along, the more her confidence grew. That was a habit he picked up too.

He wonders what habits you have. How you look playing, sat at the keys

If only he took a few more steps

If only he knocked on the door, and asked

If only

If only

But Lucifer just leans against the door, adjusting to the weight of his wings as if they’ve just been birthed, and listens to you play. Hoping that one day you’ll be able to listen to what his heart has to say.


End file.
